Nanny Dispute: A single dadnanny romantic suspense by Shandi Boyes

Author:Shandi Boyes [Boyes, Shandi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skye High Publishing
Published: 2023-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

17

BRODIE

“What the hell did you do with my daughter? And where can I find her?” Lucy scares the shit out of me more than any other girl I know, but that’s one of the things I love about her the most. She doesn’t put up with my crap.

Henley stares at the door Lucy passed through a few seconds ago before shifting her dilated eyes back to me. “I told her she shouldn’t be so hard on you. That a daddy’s job is to protect their children, and although she may not want to believe it”—she swallows three times before finishing her sentence—“she probably needs protecting from me more than anyone.” She fans her face, but it does little to bring back its color. “I also reminded her that Uncle Thane is sleeping over…” She stops, then starts again. “He—” A dangerous heave interrupts her this time. “I’m going to be sick.”

I dive for her at the same time she lurches forward, so my shirt catches most of her first lot of vomit.

The toilet bowl handles the rest.

“I—” Another stream of liquidity vomit cuts her off.

“We’ll talk once you’ve sobered up.” I pull her hair back from her face before opening the drawer under the vanity and finding an elastic hair tie. My stomach is rock hard—on the inside. Nothing makes me queasy, but I’d rather sleep on vomit-free sheets.

“Why aren’t you mad?” Henley asks after expelling half of the alcohol she’d consumed before going out to search for more. “Beau would have been horrified.”

The churns of her stomach when I aid her to her feet are so loud they hurt me.

Needing to keep the focus off the massacre occurring inside her, I ask, “Who’s Beau?”

“He’s my ex.” Her feet more drag than stomp along the tiles when we move for the door, so I return her to my arms to make the journey easier. “He was an asshole.” I deserve her jab when she murmurs, “I seem to have a thing for assholes.” My knuckles are already bruised, but they’re primed for a second round when she quietly adds, “He’s the reason I’m a lightweight. The last time I drank of my own will, he chipped my tooth.”

“I’m not exactly sure you can call a whole bottle of vodka a lightweight drinker’s companion.” I place her onto the bed before pretending our conversation is casual and not an interrogation for information. “Is Beau from the South like you?” Her lips purse in confusion, so I add, “Does he have an accent like yours?”

Her pfft sends spit flying in the air. “I don’t have an accent.” Her throat works through a hard swallow when her eyes drop to her gym pants. “But I do have vomit on my pants.”

I face my eyes to the wall when she commences pulling them off, but within seconds, I’m left with no choice but to gawk. Her gym pants are stuck halfway down her thighs, and no amount of grunting and groaning will remove them.

“If you’re wearing butt-hungry panties, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.

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